Read our current issue by clicking on the cover below. Read Light‘s poems of the week
What’s the easiest way to read Poems of the Week? In your email inbox, hot off the cyberpress! Just sign up for our free Substack here. by Marshall Begel “Russian Retailers See Horse Sales Surge Amid Worsening Gasoline Deficit” With gasoline in short supply, Envision riding noble steeds So, look this gift horse in its mouth— by Philip Kitcher “The U.S. men’s team limped out of the World Cup, beaten by Belgium… [M]any are calling it karmic retribution after U.S. striker Folarin Balogun was allowed to play despite a red card because President Trump called for FIFA to conduct what he described as a review…” When they talked of red cards, he was very confused, It is sad to relate, for the Land of the Free, by David Hedges Shall I compare thee to a pompous ass? by Julia Griffin “… 18 ancient tombs were discovered at Marina el-Alamein, near Alexandria, which includes rock-cut and limestone tombs, pottery and a granite sarcophagus. … Close to the sarcophagus, they found the remains of a plaster sphinx statue… . Four gold pieces were placed inside the mouths of some of the deceased, known as ‘the golden tongue’…” O Sphinx, whom are you watching in this tomb? by Dan Campion “‘Time was speeding up, slowing down, or even stopping’: Physicist demonstrates a key theory of time by building a ‘mini-universe’ in his lab” The brain, wrote Dickinson, is wide, by Steven Kent “Neo-fascist group Patriot Front parades banners, including Confederate flag, chanting ‘Reclaim America’ in US capital“ How many of their “patriotic” dollars Confirmed in their convictions re: the races, by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons “The Metropolitan Police have launched a criminal investigation into at least £500,000 of donations made to Reform UK by [Fiona Cottrell,] the mother of the convicted fraudster who secretly bankrolled Nigel Farage.” For Count Binface’s foe, issues mount: by Steven Urquhart Bell “I visited the gorgeous walkable European city where pints cost as little as £4.” If pints of beer are going for a song,Poems of the Week
From Car to Czar
—United 24
the marketplace endorses
the vehicle that says goodbye
to fossil fuel—it’s horses!
just like the upper class—
a luxury that only needs
a stable and some grass.
no car today can beat it.
If things continue going south,
remember: you can eat it!
The Best-Laid Plans…
—ABC News
but once they explained them, he wasn’t amused.
He derided the ref: “What the [devil] does he know?
Let me have a quick word with my pal, Infantino.”
The whole business was settled with utmost dispatch—
for the Don is a master at fixing a match.
that revenge on the Belgians was not meant to be.
Shall I Compare Thee to a Pompous Ass?
Thou art ten thousand thousand times the more
Disgusting and degenerate—no class!
Some on the left would label thee a whore
Though that demeans the babes thou once employ’d
In Moscow at the bid of Vladimir,
Who taped the golden shower thou so enjoy’d,
And others who stay silent out of fear.
‘Tis apt to see thy gold complexion dimm’d
By E. Jean What’s-her-name, on whom thou pil’d
A dump-truck’s worth of epithets untrimm’d
And otherwise besmirch’d—hell’s-fire, revil’d!
Mighteth there lurk some faint redeeming grace
Behind thy smirking Gatorade’d face?
Riddle in the Sands
—The Guardian
Never mind whom.
This gold upon his tongue—what can it be?
A mystery.
Is it a gift, a fare he has to pay?
I will not say.
Then answer only this: why did he die?
Do not ask why.
Surely it was no curse that laid him low?
You may not know.
But could he curse another, in his turn?
That you will learn.
Ticktock
—LiveScience
Viz. “wider than the sky”:
A “mini-universe” inside
Which cosmic rules apply.
. . .
Now spacetime’s rules hard science plumbs
Beyond our craniums,
Which shows reality succumbs
To dial-twiddling thumbs.
Tough Guise (or, Fascin’ Forward)
—The Guardian
Were spent on spiffy shirts with matching collars?
Coordinated, yes, but just plain tacky,
These cosplay kooks in color-coded khaki.
Yet not quite brave enough to show their faces—
Disguised, in mobs, each bully feels empowered,
And so it is, of course, for every coward.
Fiona
—The Sunday Times
Is a fraudster the ultimate fount
Of Fiona’s largesse?
Nigel dare not confess—
As it might knock him down for the Count!
Show Me the Sway to Go Home
—Daily Mirror
The city won’t be walkable for long.
(For more witty poems, read our current issue or visit our Poems of the Week archive)

